Death at the Box.

The Box is in a corner of our kitchen, farthest from food and nearest a window. That morning, the long legged spider, out for adventure, squeezed through a small space under a window screen and into our lives forever. Leg by leg, claw by claw, each of its eight legs felt their way down that mountainside that is the wall below the window. Each step it took down that mountain had to make the Box grow in size, and, one can only imagine, the spider had been holding its breath during the descent until, just an inch above the Box, it breathed in all the magnificence within and collapsed to the hard vinyl surface upon which the Box sat. By the time we awoke and journeyed upon the crime scene, there were eight legs straight up into the air and what only can be described as a surprised look on the spider's face. That image can never be erased...and the cat was, as cats are, totally unaffected.  

Nuclear Dreams 1950-2001

At night, when young,
We knew the bomb...
I died in dreams so often:
Ending as a flash of white fire.
Decades pass...
I stay alive. I don't Die
In dreams. I won't.
I died again last night...
I felt the bomb, nearby,
A clock set to ring,
In my mind, In my dream,
The trigger clicked, the dream ended.
I died again last night.

Michael James Lawless